


this too shall pass

by kuro49



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, prison habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter finds it, but only in the miniscule details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this too shall pass

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance to any butchering of reality.

Neal's many things, and Neal's not a lot of things.

But one thing he is, and isn't, and is again because Neal can't decide what he is, is that he's careful.

And then, he's not.

 

Peter's good at plenty, and Peter's bad at probably just as much.

But he is one thing for sure, and that's the fact that he watches Neal. It is a completely different thing than looking at the man in the trilby and seeing that it's tilted to the left only because he is more right handed than left.

He knows it and he almost even understands why Neal does this.

He shouldn't, but he does. And it is more than being able to think like a criminal, Neal is Neal (and that, in itself, has always meant more to Peter than it really should).

 

This, however, is a thing that Peter doesn't notice for a long long time. Perhaps, he isn't expecting it, or perhaps, Neal is just that good at misdirection and all those sleight of hands he calls party tricks when he is halfway to unclasping the rare jewel from your neck. Still, when Peter does, he can't stop seeing it.

He first finds it in the details, but only in the miniscule details, and he knows he can call it all a coincidence of some sort before either one of them has to talk about it.

And in their combined effort, they make it pretty far.

 

Too often, he will find himself knocking on Neal's door for a cup of June's perfect Italian roast before he drives them both into the office. And too often, he will have to intrude (not that convicted felons deserve this kind of privacy) because Neal is already on the terrace with his bare feet propped up on the opposite seat, sipping cappuccinos among the New York clouds.

He doesn't know when Neal wakes up. Never really wonders about it either since it never comes up. Peter isn't about to be the one asking. And if he thinks, long and hard about it, he is sure he can shape this into another coincidence, of some sort.

Neal's smart, and Peter's just as much, they can both make something up if it is just for this.

 

It's April, and humid when they come in from the unexpected thunderstorm, drenched through all the layers of their suits, three for Neal and two for Peter. He lets Peter use his shower first as he peels off the clothes sticking to him like a second skin. He makes fresh coffee and waits in his undershirt, drinking an Italian roast on the side of too hot.

Neal burns his tongue twice before Peter comes out with a towel around his shoulders.

"Coffee's on the counter, you know where the cups are." And then Peter watches as he disappears into the bathroom, still steaming from the hot water that has just been cascading down his back.

Peter is sitting on the sofa, flipping through the channels for one that isn't playing a black and white classic, and it's like even the television knows when Caffrey's home. He is drying his hair with a towel when Neal comes back out. Peter hasn't even taken a sip of the coffee he has just poured.

"That was quick."

Neal doesn't falter, but he looks as though he would, if only he could, before he shrugs, hair still dripping water down his face. "It's a habit."

Peter watches as he sits down next to him, takes a sip of his drink, still curling smoke over the top, and burns his tongue for a third time.

 

It takes him another month before he finds another handful of details. But at this point, it is a bit of a smack in the face when he finally does see it.

The files are opened and arranged to lie in corresponding piles that only the two of them can understand. Peter is reading through another interview transcript when Neal starts nodding off at the table just a little after twelve.

"Neal," Peter doesn't shake him, he doesn't even lean over to prod the other man into consciousness. His voice, alone, is enough to wake the other into sitting up straight, eyes a bleary blue when he finally takes the effort to blink them open. "The guestroom is all yours."

He doesn't even notice it that night, he only sees it in the morning when he knocks on the guestroom door, only intruding (not so much since this is his own house) when he hears nothing for a good minute.

The bed is empty, the comforters folded carefully at the end of the mattress, corner to corner, and then smoothed over. Even the bed sheets are pulled crisp against the mattress, each corner tucked in, clean straight lines.

Peter goes downstairs, and finds his wife biting into a bagel before she is pushing over a note, folded into fours.

>   _Peter, El:_
> 
> _Enjoy breakfast, I'm going back to June's for a change of clothes._
> 
>                                                                                  — _XOXO Neal_

Peter looks around at the tray of carefully cut fruits, scrambled eggs and perfectly toasted bagels. "When did he leave?"

Elizabeth shrugs, takes another bite and motions to the hall with her chin, "the front door was locked from the inside too."

The last is all Neal, Peter knows that much about him. Like how he suspects the password to his security system has probably been changed twice over, or how he also knows that he can dust down the whole of his house and not find a single Caffrey print. But everything else, that's not. At least not the same man he's caught almost five years ago.

Still, he can think that Neal just likes being the perfect guest.

 

The next time he is at Neal's place, Peter looks.

Because he needs the confirmation to his unsettling theory. He never needs to look that way, into the corner of the apartment where Neal's bed is. And perhaps, it is exactly these little things displayed in such obvious places that Peter never exactly see.

At least not in the way he is looking at it now.

Just as he assumes, Neal's comforters are folded with careful precision at the end of his bed, the sheets pulled taut across the mattress, the corners tucked in.

"Peter?" Neal is standing in his bathrobe in front of him, smelling like fresh ground beans and sunshine. Neal isn't frowning, but it is a close thing, the furrow between his brows is almost enough for Peter to pretend he doesn't have to ask.

Instead, he shakes his head and brushes the other man off. "Go change, and we'll go."

"Sure, coffee's just outside." Neal turns for his oversized closet, casting one last look at Peter, not even attempting to pretend that he doesn't believe a word he says.

Neal knows Peter is looking at his bed, knows he finds something he doesn't like. And it is in the way that he turns back, that arc in his neck that tells Peter everything he needs to know. Neal isn't trying to hide anything, Peter watches after him, oh god—

Neal doesn't even notice it himself.

 

It's rare to get a case out of town, and one that requires Neal's expertise too.

They get there just past dinnertime, with their meeting at eight the next morning and the sun already set, Peter checks them in. The hotel room is too small, the carpet worn through and almost brown (Neal insists that's dried blood, Peter just tells him to keep his shoes on and pretends he can't see the stains). They eat takeout at the table and Neal is channel surfing when he comes out of the shower.

"Do we need to talk about this?" Neal is sitting up in bed with his legs crossed and the television on mute, "whatever this is?" He makes a motion with one hand.

Peter doesn't know how to start, doesn't even know which problem they need to talk about. Elizabeth tells him, in bed, late at night, that there is plenty. She will hold up her hand in the dark and count: the guns that seem to gravitate towards Neal, those postcards he's been receiving with chess moves hand delivered to his door, Kate, the anklet, and those not quite lies that aren't exactly outright truths either.

He doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or sigh, and settles for a faint scoff as he takes a seat on the edge of the other bed.

"Neal," and like with everything else, it always starts like this, "when are you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

Neal's eyes are on the television set in the corner, the pictures flickering colors over his face. Peter sees his lips move, and the shutters close.

 

They are lying in the dark, and Peter can hear the frown in Neal's voice when he rolls back on his side, the thin white tank nearly glowing in the night.

"Four years is a long time."

And like he is picking up a conversation neither one of them abandoned almost three hours before, Peter replies. "You were short of three months."

"It's a close deal, Peter, no one's ever been able to keep me in one place for so long."

"So, tell me about it."

"There's not much to tell." And really, there is a rare kind of honesty when Neal admits. He knows Peter wants to know about the prison habits he has dragged through the bars and into his new found cage. Most of the time, he doesn't even notice, and that's more of the truth than anything he has said in a long, long time. "I get hungry at six, need to sleep around twelve, and wake up obscenely early. I've lived like this for four years."

"…It's been almost six months."

"And it'll be six more."

Neal's voice is muffled but he's never sounded so clear. It's not a promise. It is not even something Neal needs to make a promise about. Peter turns over to his side, and there's a prickling sense of awareness when their positions are mirrored so perfectly.

"Okay," he says into the dark and leaves the rest in Neal's hands.

 

Peter is half asleep, lured into a false sense of comfort by Neal's even breathing. He hears him roll over first, back lying flushed and flat against the bed once more, before he can hear him speaking above the too even breathing that he is still faking even now.

"…In there, you don't want them to find a weapon on you."

"Mmhmm, and did they?"

"…You don't want to know whether I had one in the first place or not? …Should I be offended, Peter?" Neal asks, probably with an empty grin that Peter can't see but can feel in the base of his gut. "O, ye of little faith."

"You aren't dangerous, Neal, I know." Peter scoffs softly, trying to be delicate when he isn't. "But neither are you defenseless or stupid."

"No… I wasn't. I had dozens hidden all over the place. From block C all the way to the yard."

Peter breathes out, mirroring Neal's, something even, something long.

"I was always careful when I handled one, you had to press down. Always down, never draw it across or angle it up. 'cause if it slips, you can take back a lot, but a slit of a major artery usually just means a lot of blood on your hands."

"Neal—"

"And I'm a lot of things, but I'm not going to be a murderer too."

 

He wakes up, with the sun in his eyes.

The pillowcase scratches against the side of his face and his bed suddenly feels too light to have another person curling on the other side, all curves and sweet opened mouthed smiles even when she is still deep in sleep.

"Mornin' Peter."

It sounds nothing like his wife.

And for a second, all Peter can come up with is that there are no shrill alarms breaking him from his dreams. Not here, outside the bars where not everyone wears head to toe orange, nor there, behind the bars where Neal has once been surrounded by two walls of art and another made entirely of tally marks. Peter comes to the realization that he can try, he has done it for so long after all, but he still won't find an alarm set into Neal's phone.

Waking up with the sun is engrained in muscle memories, in dreams that don't come.

He groans, something from deep within his throat, when he finally cracks open an eye to see Neal standing over the bed. He is already dressed, pressed from jacket to vest to the dress shirt underneath, and peering down at him from the rim of a coffee cup he is sipping away at.

There is substance behind the grin on his face that has been absent last night.

"Rise and shine, Peter."

And his smile has enough teeth in it to get Peter sitting up and batting at Neal's coffee, just another arm's length away.

 

Peter thinks it's safe to assume that he knows Neal Caffrey as a whole.

He isn't wrong, but he is only about a fraction right.

Still, a fraction is more than anyone else has ever taken from Neal's offering hand. A history of miniscule details hiding in the lifelines carved into his opened palms like maps to where his head is wrapped around his heart, where smart and recklessness is one and the same. Where Burke is right there at Caffrey's heel, every step of the way.

It won't be if, not here where they are far beyond the bars, not when Peter is right here with Neal, every step of the way once more.

XXX Kuro


End file.
